


I'm~Working Bitch (Ain't Got No Time For Dick)

by HornedSerpentNine



Series: Alternate Universes for the Veela's Omen Chronicles [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Amélie gets real tired of Hermione's useless lesbian ways, Amélie is a manipulative and possessive bitch who only wants the best for Hermione, Amélie is an actress, Amélie simps for short green-eyed women, Amélie’s a lead in the romcom movie called Rose & Thorn, Ashnikko songs will be featured heavily, F/F, Hermione can't speak around pretty women, Hermione is a painter, Hermione knows jackshit about being an actress, Hermione listens to primarily Ashnikko and classical music, Hermione's a sucker for blond women, Mendonicas have a thing for naming inanimate objects like pets, Modern AU, No Magic AU, basically whole VOC cast are in the arts/film industry, everyone thirsts over the Mendonica twins' muscles, movie stars au, she's also trying to learn more about Tarot, twin-dependent issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29090853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HornedSerpentNine/pseuds/HornedSerpentNine
Summary: There should be a warning about giving pretty fairies gifts, but Hermione was never one to listen anyway
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Daphne Greengrass, OC Amélie Mendonica/Daphne Greengrass, platonic Hermione Mendonica | Daphne Greengrass
Series: Alternate Universes for the Veela's Omen Chronicles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134371
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	1. The Fairy and The Street Racer

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any Harry Potter, nor do I own any lore I found in the Wiki pages/Pottermore.  
> My wonderful Beta is Rencae!  
> Also, I use Google Translate  
> Also-Also, all comments and questions are welcome! I always reply!
> 
> Also-3x, the Ashnikko song featured in this chapter is "Daisy"
> 
> Also-4x, I'm using my same method in concerning languages other than English. So to recap:
> 
> Bolded words = another language being spoken
> 
> Bolded English = another language being spoken, but only when the people in hearing vicinity can understand said language
> 
> Bolded Language = another language being spoken, but only when people in the hearing vicinity can't and/or is assumed they can't understand said language

_You don’t wanna see me bratty,_

_Pet the kitty, call me catty_

_Make your man call me daddy_

_He talk too much, he’s too chatty (not cool)_

_CEO, I’m savvy_

_Respect a bitch, I’m a maverick_

_Flexible, so elastic_

_But don’t do you dare bend a bitch backwards_

_Fuck a princess, I’m a king_

_Bow down and kiss on my ring_

_Being a bitch is my kink_

_What the fuck else did you think?_

_Fuck a princess, I’m a king_

_Bow down and kiss on my ring_

_It’s gonna hurt, it’ll sting_

_Spittin’ your blood in the sink_

_I’m crazy, but you like that—_

An asshat cuts sharply in front of Hermione, forcing her to serve jerkily to the side, nearly colliding with the car in the lane to her right. Horns blare all around her, and it’s only thanks her years of motorbike experience that she doesn’t end up a bloody splatter on the freeway.

Scowling, she throttles the gas, speeding up past the asshat in his shiny, overcompensating sports car. Without looking over her shoulder, she flips him the bird, and before he can retaliate, Hermione’s rocketing through traffic, zipping in and out between the lane-abiding vehicles.

Once she’s put a few kilometers between her and the asshat, she slows back down, smoothly sliding into a lane once more. Following the flow of cars around her, Hermione idly continues to listen to her “Driving Playlist”—currently only consisting of Ashnikko songs—playing in her Bluetooth, and in the span of three songs, she passes into London’s city limits.

Cutting the music, Hermione rings her twin at a stoplight. Amélie picks up on the second trill.

“ **You’re bloody late!** ” her twin shouts [in French] in lieu of a greeting.

“ **I’m in the city—** ”

“ **ETA?** ” Amélie demands, and Hermione sighs, exasperated.

“ **Five—maybe ten minutes? I haven’t had the time to check,** ” she huffs.

Amélie scoffs.

“ **Oh, yeah, so like twenty minutes then,** ” she drawls sardonically.

“ **Oi! I’m not that bad!** ” Hermione rolls her eyes, and the light turns green.

“ **You couldn’t arrive on time even if my life depended on it,** ” Amélie drawls, and Hermione has no rebuttal.

“ **Anyway, I saved you a seat—in the back of course; can’t have you blocking my fans’ view.** ”

Hermione chuckles at that.

“ **You _do_ know that I don’t have a ticket to your interview?**” Hermione says as she follows Google Maps’ instructions to her destination.

“ **Bitch, I’m the _star_ of the show, I can extend any patronages I want,**” Amélie states primly, and Hermione can almost see her twin’s ego puffing up.

“ **Co-star,** ” she coughs-corrects, and Amélie hisses distastefully.

“ **Same thing! Are you dolled up at least?** ”

Hermione obeys the traffic guards directing people into various parking areas, flashing her motorbike license when promoted.

“ **Yes, Amélie, I am ‘dolled up’,** ” Hermione drawls flatly, guiding her bike into her a parking slot.

“ **Great! We can’t have you besmirching our good name by arriving as like some common noob,** ” her twin bemoans dramatically before hanging up. Shaking her head, Hermione kills the engine of her dark-green Ducati Multistradda 1200, and takes off her helmet, freeing her dark-brown hair from its low ponytail.

“Good ride, Tyche,” Hermione says to her bike, patting the seat affectionately. Taking out the key from its fob, she unzips her black leather jacket, tucks the key in her one pocket of her maroon hoodie, and then zips the jacket up.

Leaning slightly to check herself in her motorbike’s mirrors, she rakes her fingers through her windblown hair, combing out the little snarls. Hermione then pulls the hood of her hoodie out from where it got stuck under her jacket, doing the same with the drawstrings.

Going over a second and final check, Hermione retucks the faded-blue, ribbed shirt in her stylized blue jeans, wipes off some grim from her bronze belt buckle—engraved by hand with a skull and crossbones with two snakes entering its mouth and out its eye sockets—and double checks to make sure her fake dagger tattoo didn’t rub off.

Moving to the compact storage compartment right above Tyche’s front wheel, she quickly opens it with the four-digit combo, switching out her riding gloves to the fingerless, red-leather ones. Grabbing her phone and lanyard with her credentials, Hermione straightens, and locks the compartment.

Striding towards the entrance of the MCM London Comic Con building, her black reinforced-leather boots with the clacking pleasantly on the pavement.

* * *

It is impossible to find anything in this place; Hermione realizes with growing frustration; much less one interview station among a few dozen others. Her only saving grace is that she’s two-hundred-one centimeters tall. Coupled with the fact her boots give her an additional four more centimeters, Hermione is easily one of the tallest people in the building—barring those whose stilted costumes of course.

Still, her natural advantage doesn’t help her plight of finding her twin in the massive throng of comiconers, and even less so when random people keep stopping her to ask for pictures. Taking shelter against a rare, bare stretch of wall, Hermione defers to her digital map once more, trying to find her location in its detailed contents.

“Lost?”

Hermione lifts her head at the feminine voice.

“Very,” she replies, looking over the young woman around her age standing in front of her. White-blond hair piled in a stylized messy bun atop her head with a few select locks frames her pale face.

Brilliantly, glittering eyes like emerald jewels gaze up at her while apple-red lips quick mysteriously. A pair of delicate looking, gossamery fairy wings stand out next, attached to her back somehow without any hints of straps.

A short, strapless ice-blue dress clings tightly to her slim form, with faint white lines forming an almost leaf-like pattern highlighting her soft curves. Slits in the dress over her hips to reveal frilly, white underskirt layers that just barely reach the top of her thighs.

Underneath the layers, mint-green leggings snugly conform over lean thighs and flaring out like dainty flower petals just below the knee. Finally, slipper-like flats the same color proudly show off white pomp-pomps at the toe completes the supposedly innocent costume.

Hermione realizes with a start that she didn’t hear a word of what the young woman said.

“Ah, sorry, what was that?” Hermione fumbles with her words, fighting back an embarrassed blush when she receives a knowing smirk.

“Like it?”

The young woman slowly swivels, and Hermione swallows hard when she gets an eyeful of a bare skin; the dress dipping modestly to reveal elegant shoulder blades and some mid-back still visible through the clear opaqueness of the wings.

“Gorgeous,” she husks, and the young woman preens.

“You’re looking pretty dapper yourself,” the young woman steps into Hermione’s space, blinking those dazzling, thought-purging eyes up at her.

“Shank,” Hermione blurts out. The young woman smirks cockily, and it occurs to Hermione that this woman knows _exactly_ what she’s doing to Hermione.

“Well, _Shank_ , I’ll save you from thinking too hard; I’m Periwinkle.”

Hermione just nods, eyes snapping to where Periwinkle’s hands fiddle with the zipper of her jacket.

“Couldn’t find your way to the _Rose & Fang_ interview?”

Hermione blinks dumbly, and Periwinkle taps Hermione’s lanyard in answer with a long finger.

“Oh—ah—yes,” she coughs, flushing again at the amused look.

“Cute. Now, it just so happens that I have some spare time to show you the way. We can’t disappoint all those eager fans missing you by arriving late,” Periwinkle purrs as she entwines her arm around Hermione’s.

“ **Oui,** [Yes,]” Hermione murmurs, forgetting the Queen’s English entirely when Periwinkle’s body presses against hers. The young woman barely comes up to her shoulder, but she expertly leads them through the crowd and into the maze of the building.

A random thought occurs to Hermione.

“Where’s your lanyard?”

“Forget already, silly?”

Hermione panics, trying to remember if the young woman answered her before while she was blatantly ogling her.

“I don’t have one; didn’t like it,” Periwinkle raises her left wrist, revealing a barcode imprinted on her flesh.

“Temporary tattoo: much easier to conceal and doesn’t interfere with my costume’s aesthetic,” the young woman explains, and Hermione raises an eyebrow.

“Huh,” Hermione’s interest in the use of a barcode tattoo distracts her from her reality for a second.

“I noticed you also got some ink; fake too?”

Hermione sucks in a breath with smooth, warm hands turns her left forearm over, tracing the outline of the dagger there and leaving burning tingles in their wake.

“Yup,” she says breathily, staring wide-eyed at Periwinkle when the young woman interlaces their fingers together. She doesn’t know how long she stares at their clasped hands.

“And we’re here,” Periwinkle says primly, and Hermione looks up, startled at the abrupt stop. She hadn’t been staring for that long, surely? Right?

They’re standing to the side of the entrance of the _Rose & Thorn_ interview area, out of the way of curious passerby’s peeking through the entrance. A quick survey of two empty chairs and one filled with the interview suggests that the interview is intermission, or at least Hermione hopes it is.

“If you want to go in, you’re going to have to let go, Sweetie.”

Hermione jumps at Periwinkle’s titter, and she detangles her arm from the young woman’s hastily.

“Oh, wow, I didn’t realize I was that horrid of an escort,” Periwinkle snorts, and horror fills Hermione upon realizing her mistake, completely missing the sexual connotation.

“ **Non!** [No!] You’re not horrid at all! I was being a dunderhead—you’re perfectly fine,” Hermione scrambles to say, reaching out to hold Periwinkle’s hands, but retracting them at the last second so they can nervously fiddle with her jeans.

Periwinkle raises a sharp eyebrow, and crosses her arms.

“Just ‘fine’?” She asks haughtily, tilting her chin up slightly. Hermione gapes at her,struggling to come up with a reply that won’t dig her deeper into a hole. Fixing her posture, Hermione takes a quick breath, and forces herself to clasp her hands behind her in at-ease position.

“Periwinkle, I am deeply obliged that your person designs me worthy of your attentions and affections. Heretofore, I have lacked the beauties that your presence has conducted to this body, and alas, I repent, for I must request a leave of absence from your side,” Hermione says clearly and firmly, drawing up her childhood tutor’s teachings of impassivity and inscrutability.

Periwinkle stares up at her in silent shock, her arms dropping to her sides. Hermione tilts her head a smidge, cataloging the young woman’s reaction for any signals of anger or annoyance. In doing so, it flies right over her head that significantly dilated pupils are not from shock, but from barely contained lust.

“Ah— _yes,_ ” Periwinkle gasps, a pretty pink flush spreading to her shoulders. Hermione smiles at this, relaxing at being forgiven. Noticing the young woman’s reddening skin, she incorrectly assumes that Periwinkle is cold. The building _is_ blasting frigid air to keep the numerous generators cool, after all.

“Oh, here, you need it more than I,” Hermione shrugs off her jacket, unaware of the appreciative stares that trace over her body; her muscles evident even under the hoodie.

Periwinkle stares at the offered garment for a beat, and then turns around, cranning her head over her shoulder.

“Peel them off, please?”

Hermione nods stupidly, tossing her jacket over her arm as she awkwardly reaches for the fairy wings.

“Not the tip, you have to pull from the base,” Periwinkle quickly corrects, halting Hermione’s movement. Both duck their heads, blushing at the innuendo.

“Ah— _ahem_ , right,” Hermione moves her hand to where the wings attach to Periwinkle’s body: right between her shoulder blades on the spine.

“The body-tape might be a little tough to peel off, so you might want to— _oh!_ ”

Hermione mentally screams at herself to ignore the soft gasp the young woman lets out when she braces her other hand on the back of Periwinkle’s neck. She equally ignores the shivers and squirming of the heated flesh under her palm as she carefully detaches the wings. Her fingers twitch, a dark urge to close her digits tighter around the fluttering pulse.

Hermione can feel questioning gazes landing on her and Periwinkle behind her, and she repeatedly tells herself that humans are innately curious creatures.

_There’s also the fact that I have her facing the wall and I’m blocking everyone’s view._

Hermione decides not to linger on that thought before it twists into something incentive for her libido.

“There—uh, here, I guess,” Hermione rambles, passing Periwinkle’s wings to her when she turns around.

“Thanks,” the young woman murmurs shyly, and swiftly folds them in a single, practiced motion. She reaches for Hermione’s jacket, and Hermione fumbles to drap it over Periwinkle’s shoulders at the same time. The result is that they’re nearly chest-to-chest, a single breath separating them with Hermione’s arms over Periwinkle’s.

Effectively trapping the young woman in Hermione’s arms.

Everything falls away as they share each other’s air, and Periwinkle reaches up to clutch Hermione’s jacket. Tension charges around them, and they both shudder when their fingers brush against each other. Slowly, Periwinkle grips a firmer hold on the leather, and Hermione releases it. Now Periwinkle’s original etherial fairy costume now looks like a punk-rock fairy.

_Or a small fairy wearing her girlfriend’s larger clothes,_ Hermione’s subconscious whispers suggestively. With that thought, Hermione takes a step back, breaking the intense spell over them.

“When should I give it back?” Periwinkle asks with a small smile, and Hermione smiles back.

“Keep it, it looks better on you.”

Hermione’s rewarded with a the widest, happy grin showing off pearly whites, and Periwinkle pulls her arms through the jacket’s sleeves, although her hands barely peaking out from the openings.

“Er, thanks,” Periwinkle looks up at Hermione through her lashes, and then she’s surging forward, grabbing a fistful of Hermione’s hoodie and yanking her down as she’s leaning up on her tiptoes.

The caste kiss on the cheek is over before Hermione even realizes that Periwinkle is once more slipping through the mass of people, her white-blond blipping in and out of view and then disappearing completely.

Hermione stands there, staring at the spot where she last saw Periwinkle, a hand reaching to her cheek where she swears she can still feel the brush of hot lips. A cough behinds her makes her whirl around, and she spots an extremely amused staff member.

“Ms. Mendonica?”

Hermione nods, and the staff member smirks at her.

“Looks like you missed the entire interview.”

“ **Merde,** [Fuck,]” Hermione curses.

“Ms. Mendonica is waiting for you in the back, and if I were you, I wouldn’t make her wait any longer than you already have,” the staff member advises amusedly.

“Right, thanks,” Hermione hurriedly strides in the direction the staff member points to.

There’s still a sizable amount of people still leaving the interview area, many of who double take when they see Hermione, and a few hide giggles behind their hands. Confused, but not really caring, Hermione easily spots Amélie.

Her twin is dressed in a very flattering Elvish robes, Tolkien, and if Hermione’s grasp on Elvish is accurate, then the script on Amélie’s back reads: “I’m a cunning linguist”.

As Hermione draws closer, Amélie whirls around as if sensing her, righteous rage fumbling into a gobsmacked incredulousness.

“ **C’est quoi ce bordel sur ton visage?!** [What the bloody fuck is on your face?!]”

Hermione stammers a string of incoherent sounds, but Amélie growls over them, marching right up to Hermione and grabbing her face harshly.

“ ** _Qui_ et où _est cette_ fichue _jupe_ qui a _laissé sa lèvre_ de merde sur ma _jumelle?!_** [ _Who_ and _where_ is the damn _skirt_ that left her shitty _lip imprint_ on my _twin?!_ ]”

“ _ **QUOI?!**_ [ _WHAT?!_ ]”

— . —

Costumes Ref Images:


	2. Les Yeux Sont La Fenêtre De L'Âme:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Goddess help Hermione, she needs better luck with women

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title (French translation): The eyes are the window to the soul

Amélie drags Hermione to an occupied photobooth, yanking open the curtain to the righteous tweenage fury of a trio of prepubescent nerds.

“ _Scram,_ ” Amélie hisses, plunging her hand under the neckline of her robes, producing a twenty euro. The bravest nerd reaches fearfully for the money, but the stupidest one slaps his friend’s arm down.

“Double or I’ll scream,” he dares, thrusting his tiny hand out. Amélie sneers, a hint of her canines glinting in the dim light nearly has the brave and the silent nerds shitting themselves.

But Amélie reaches for her hidden stash of cash, this time revealing a _fifty euro_. Hermione’s jaw drops a little.

“A little extra for your silence,” she growls, and the boys snatch the money hastily, tripping over themselves to exit the booth.

“Did you just _bribe_ —don’t tell me you keep—” Hermione stammers incredulously as her twin shoves her into the booth, sliding the curtain shut violently

“ **Between my tits? Yes and what about it? You ought to be less concerned about the thousand euro in my cleavage and more about some slut leaving her mark on you!** ” Amélie snaps, keeping an iron hold on Hermione’s shoulders to keep her sitting, eventually just giving up and planting herself on Hermione’s lap.

“ _ **Thousand euro?!—**_ ”

Amélie slaps a hand over Hermione’s mouth, shushing her.

“ **What did I just say? Gods above, did you lose brain cells in the last seven years since you ran off to the bumfuck wilds with that venerable sociopath? And keep it down, these walls are thin and shoddy workmanship.** ”

Hermione slaps her twin’s hand away.

“ **I thought you and Bella got along,** ” Hermione rumbles, now more than irritated. Amélie raises an eyebrow, the motion clearly saying to Hermione: “well of course we do, it’s why her insult was said with warmth and affection that only _family_ is afforded.”

“ **Don’t try to change the subject. Now—who—kissed—you?** ” Amélie leans in, bonking her forehead against Hermione’s, as if the skin-to-skin touch will transfer Hermione’s memories into Amélie’s. Hermione glares straight back into her twin’s arms, and crosses her arms.

“ ** _None,_ of your concern,**” she replies curtly, tilting her chin up a smidge. Amélie smirks dangerously, and Hermione can’t help the cold sweat heat-flare up in her spine.

“ **Oh? Alright, then I suppose it wasn’t my concern when, I can’t seem to recall, oh, what was her name? Sahara? Shasha? Ah, yes, it was _Sarah_ —**”

Hermione flinches at the mention of her first disaster of a not-girlfriend-who-only-slept-with-Hermione-to-clean-out-her-bank-accounts.

“ **—and who else? Help me remember Hermione, my head’s too full of nonsensical worry for my twin nowadays. The second one, didn’t she _love_ you so much she put a tracker on all your clothes? No, silly me, it was all your _undergarments_ —**”

Hermione struggles not to drop her eyes from Amélie’s now. Umna was so obsessed that they had to sic Bellatrix on her. Now the girl is somewhere in the “Amazon rainforest”, although coming from Narcissa, Hermione’s ninety-percent sure that means “unknown grave site”.

“ **—and _then,_ there was that time you won some multi-sports tournament, and _every_ pussy within hunting distance wanted a taste of my big sister, isn’t that right? Who was it that lured you into a _highly illegal_ , dog-human- _fighting ring?_ Such a dangerous situation, that I—I—was called in as the _last_ —final resort to get the two of you out—when I should have been the _first—fucking—CALL_** _!_ ”

Hermione flicks her eyes back to orbs mirroring hers, except Amélie’s are burning with pent up fury.

“ **To be fair, Tarow was trying to get out from under her father’s thumb,** ” Hermione counters strongly, standing up for her collegehood friend. Amélie clacks her teeth, wordlessly warning Hermione to not interrupt.

“ ** _You_ —have the _shittiest_ luck with women—and that was with bitches you knew! Did you even _ask_ this one’s name?!**” Amélie snarls.

“ **No—well—yes? She told me it was Periwinkle,** ” Hermione says, her thoughts drifting off at the thought of the blonde, unknowingly blushing.

“ **Oh no you don’t—focus—did you tell her your name?** ” Amélie shakes Hermione’s shoulders roughly, pulling her out of her daydreaming.

“ **No, I told her I was Shank.** ”

“ **Oh thank the Triple Goddess Almighty, you did something right,** ” Amélie groans in relief, ignoring Hermione’s scowl.

“ **Well, she hopefully shouldn’t be much of a problem if she doesn’t know your name, and you’re in costume, I think—speaking of—what lame-ass get up are you wearing?** ” Amélie picks condescendingly at Hermione’s hoodie.

“ **This is something you wear everyday! I knew I should have given you my spare costumes—** ”

“ **Oi! This isn’t the complete thing, I had a sweet leather jacket,** ” Hermione cuts in before Amélie goes on another rant.

“ **Tsch, ‘ _had_ ’. What happened to it? Lose it?**” Amélie taunts, and Hermione refrains from dumping her twin onto the photobooth floor. That thing’s nasty as hell.

“ **I gave it away . . . to Periwinkle,” Hermione finishes in a small voice, and Amélie face palms.**

“ **You just—gave _away_ a _custom made_ , leather jacket manufactured by Belstaff—as a favor for _Narcissa-Who-Is-Going-To-Flay-You-Alive-Black_ —to some pair of legs who blinked prettily at you?**” Amélie sighs exasperatedly.

“ **She was cold,** ” Hermione mutters petulantly.

“ **Oh _you_ are going to tell the Ice Queen of All Things Expensive and Fashion that, because I for one am not going to,**” Amélie snaps, and Hermione raises her hands in surrender.

“ **Alright, I fucked up giving away the jacket—** ”

“ **Fucked a twenty on a scale of one-to-ten,** ” Amélie grumbles.

“ **—but she had green eyes!** ” Hermione finishes, and Amélie perks up. Her twin finally leans away from her, straightening her posture as she folds her arms.

“ **You don’t say,** ” Amélie drawls flatly. Hermione holds her twin’s gaze, imploring her to see the truth in her words.

“ **Green as new grass when the first rays of dawn filter through the leaves of spring, morning dew still fresh on every individual blade,** ” Hermione says solemnly, and Hermione swears that she notices Amélie’s cheeks tinge pink.

“ **So?** ” Amélie coughs nonchalantly, but Hermione knows she’s once again found the switch in her twin’s brain from default aggression to pretty-green-eyed-girls-pretty-green-eyed-girls—

“ **Emeralds, Amélie. They sparkled in fluorescent light, just imagine how they would glisten beneath the sun? Precious, gems masterfully cut by a virtuoso and so deep you could drown in their depths and still never reach the bottom,** ” Hermione enthralls, watching carefully as Amélie’s glaze over as her mind conjures up fantasies that Hermione’s words conjured.

She doesn’t let any smugness slip from her, else Amélie sense it, but it’s impossible to tamp down the incredibly pleased flutter of ego in her chest when Amélie all but throws herself off Hermione, storming away muttering filthy obscenities under her breath.

In the privacy of the photobooth, Hermione waits a few beats in case Amélie returns unexpectedly, but when she doesn’t, Hermione lets out a cocky crackle. Her phone vibrates, and she accepts the call.

“ **Stop gloating and get your ass back here! We’ll discuss your—slip-up—later!** ” Amélie barks, hanging up so she has the last word. It still doesn’t stop Hermione from smirking when she walks out of the booth.

* * *

Much to Amélie’s frustration, Periwinkle seems to have thwarted all attempts to locate her, vanishing from existence.

“ **She’s a fairy, Amélie, I’m pretty sure she flew back home,** ” Hermione yawns as she follows Amélie out of the ComicCon building and into the first rays of sunset. Her twin had taken it upon herself to drag Hermione all over the convention, at first to hunt for Periwinkle, then to enjoy all the stalls, and then back to hunting the young woman again.

“ **Cunning bitch probably changed out of her costume,** ” Amélie grumbles, and Hermione rolls her eyes.

“ **Yeah yeah, call me when you get back to your hotel, I have to make sure Bella didn’t break Asclepius—** ” Hermione says, turning in the direction where she parked Tyche when a hand on her arm stops her.

“ **Oh no you don’t; _you_ don’t have proper protection—your trailer will be fine—you’re riding with me.**”

Hermione rolls her eyes again.

“ **Amélie, I’ll be fine. Besides, I can’t just leave Tyche here!** ”

Now it’s Amélie’s turn to roll her eyes.

“ **I’ll have my coworker pick her up. Your baby can survive a night out in the cold,** ” Amélie huffs, refusing to release Hermione.

“ **Who are they?** ” Hermione asks suspiciously.

“ **A heart frozen in the iciest ice block back in the Ice Age,** ” Amélie snickers.

“ **Look, she’s a frigid bitch; I’m a soulless bitch; you trust me; ergo: by the law of the Transitive Property, you can trust her.** ”

Hermione contemplates the validity of this explanation.

Bitchy Coworker, “A”, equals Bitchy Amélie, “B”.

Bitchy Amélie, “B”, equals Trust (with a capital “T”), “C”.

Bitchy Coworker, “A”, equals Trust (with a capital “T”). “C”.

She takes out her keys, tossing them to Amélie.

“ **The math checks out—but if I so much as spot a _scratch_ —**”

“ **I’ll kill her myself, got it, now come on, I don’t fancy getting stuck in the traffic made by everyone leaving,”** Amélie says imperiously, leading the way to her car, whipping out her phone to call someone to deliver the keys to Bitchy Coworker.

* * *

Getting out of Amélie’s deep-maroon, 2017 Jeep Grand Cherokee; affectionately named Room One-hundred-one; Hermione and Amélie leave Vape Lagoon’s parking lot, and walk the short jaunt to the Collective Canary Wharf.

It was a large four-star hotel, with over a hundred reviews, and was only five minutes away from the Mudchute Park and Farm. All of which, fortunately fit within Amélie’s expensive tastes.

“ **Did your studio pay for your room?** ” Hermione asks absentmindedly as they stride through the lobby, Hermione admiring the modern architecture.

“ **Yeah, the Director himself apparently headed it; only the best for his two cash-cows,** ” Amélie snorts.

“ **I thought you liked him,** ” Hermione says as they take the elevator up to the top floor.

“ **Eh, I do, but all this manipulative shit to butter me up into signing another contract with the studio pisses me off,** ” Amélie drawls, and the doors open.

“ **Movie politics, who knew,** ” Hermione muses, and Amélie scowls.

“ **Yeah, they’re a bitch, oh—speaking of, we’re sharing a bed.** ”

Hermione’s twin leads them to the door to her suite, unlocking it with her keycard.

“ **Didn’t you say you were rooming with your co-star?** ” Hermione asks as she steps over the threshold, stretching as the smell of faint laundry disinfectant wafts towards her.

“ **Yeah, she’s already graciously decided to move to the couch,** ” Amélie replies, jerking her thumb at the luxuriously plush, and large furniture taking up nearly an entire wall. The door shuts behind them, automatically locking.

“ **Very gracious,** ” Hermione mutters, and she shrugs off her hoodie, tossing it over the small kitchen chair.

“ **I claim shower rights first,** ” Amélie declares, stripping and tossing her on the floor as she heads off in the direction of the bathroom. Hermione rolls her eyes at her twin’s messy antics, but leaves them be. If she tried to pick them up Amélie would toss them on the ground and then pick them herself; Hermione learned _that_ in college.

The sound of the shower starts.

Padding towards the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, she hooks her thumbs in her jeans, and allows her mind to wander as she takes in the night city view. Periwinkle’s eyes surface in her minds’ eye, and Hermione blushes. Surveying the city with more focused eyes, she wonders where Periwinkle could be.

She could be in that distance light from an open window, she could be across the Thames, she could even be in the airport getting ready to take off. A pang of longing hits her hard, forcing Hermione to turn away from the panorama. Checking the kitchen, Hermione finds the laminated brochure with everything the suite’s occupants might need to know.

Hermione sets an alarm at seven-thirty so they can take their time in the morning before they head down for breakfast at eight.

The shower cuts off.

“ **Alright, shower’s yours, and don’t worry, I saved you loads of hot water,** ” Amélie calls out.

“ **Thanks,** ” Hermione responds, going over the brochure again. Apparently there’s a mini movie theatre here; she makes a reminder to go check it out.

Suddenly, there’s a rapid knock at the door, startling Hermione.

“ **You get that! I’m getting dressed!** ” Amélie orders, the sound of a suitcase unzipping emphasizing her words.

“ **You could have brought your clothes into the bathroom,** ” Hermione mutters, but she pushes off the kitchen counter. Leaning down to peer in the peephole, Hermione’s heart stops.

“ **Is it a blond?** ” Amélie calls.

“ **Yes!** ” Hermione blurts back.

“ **Well let her in already!** ”

Hermione fumbles with the lock, failing twice before she yanks the door open wide.

“ **Last favor, Mendonica,** ” the silvery-blond woman growls tightly, purposefully shoving past Hermione. Hermione’s mind takes a few seconds to process the uncalled for rudeness. She focuses watching the door lock itself rather than taking a peek at the literal French goddess that just blazed into her life.

An angry goddess that’s kicking at Amélie’s clothes.

“ **Oi! Stop that,** ” Hermione snaps, her mind snapping out of her daze when her twin’s things come into play. The silvery-blond just sneers.

“ **Can’t even pick up after yourself? God, you’re such a slob.** ”

Hermione’s cheeks flush in second-hand embarrassment, and Amélie be damned, she shuffles forward to swipe the articles off the floor. The silvery-blond doesn’t move a centimeter, standing her ground firmly.

“ **You didn’t have to kick them,** ” Hermione grumbles heatedly, locking gazes with the woman.

Major mistake.

Any thought about Periwinkle vanishes when she beholds dark-cerulean-blue eyes, churning silently like a violent sea storm on mute. She’s floundering in the danger lurking in those vast waters. Danger barely concealed the blazing stars that fleck across the blue.

Her eyes flick down to the waist long, silvery-blond hair subtly drawing attention to the goddess’ willowy body, and pale flesh.

“ **Back off, Delacour.** ”

Amélie’s gruff voice startles Hermione and Delacour, and both of them take a reflexive step away from each other.

Delacour’s head whips over to Amélie, barely clothed in her open scanty, night silks, to a fully dressed Hermione only in a tank and jeans. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish, and Hermione can’t help find her bewildered, shell-shocked expression so adorable. Amélie smiles broadly, a hint of her canines gleaming in the dull light.

“ **So you have a carbon copy,** ” Delacour snipes, crossing her arms, glaring daggers at Amélie. Amélie glares back, and suddenly Hermione is torn between defending her twin and getting hot under the—metaphorical—collar at the sight of Delacour’s sheer flearlessness.

Her twin snarls, stalking forward, not stopping until she’s nearly pressed against Delacour. To Hermione’s great admiration, the silvery-blond refuses to move.

“ **Yes, I do; she’s _my_ carbon copy,**” Amélie lets that sink in. Hermione opens her mouth when she senses the tension shift from two pissed off women to something more—and not in a good way—but closes it wisely. She knows Amélie is overprotective of her, but this seems a little over the top.

“ **Last I checked, you can’t own humans, even if they’re your twin,** ” Delacour smarts off, and Amélie smirks cruelly.

“ **Your family would know more about that than mine.** ”

If Delacour’s eyes were silent storms, now they were howling tempests as Amélie’s barb hits too close to home.

“ **Amélie, that was uncalled for,** ” Hermione interjects, but the two women ignore her. Hermione can almost imagine fires encasing hands like harpies of old, clashing over territory. She frowns at that thought. Does that mean _she’s_ the territory?

A phone ring barely even begins to slice through the aggressive battle of wills. Hermione glances in its direction, noting that it’s coming from the bedroom. Awkwardly, Hermione shifts, listening to the phone going off, ignored entirely by Amélie and Delacour.

“ **I’m just—going to get that,** ” Hermione mumbles, cautiously edging out of the room but still keeping her eyes on her twin just incase Amélie tries to pull anything when she turns her back. Still peering at the silent pair, Hermione fumbles for the phone, managing to snag it without losing sight of the other shoe dropping.

Accepting the call, Hermione raises it to her ear.

“ **Hello?** ”

“ **Hey, _Amélie._** ”

Hermione drops the phone in utter shock, the clatter of the device hitting the floor breaking Amélie and Delacour apart. Both turn to stare at her, confusion and curiosity etched identically on their faces.

Hermione wordlessly glances down at the phone as the voice of Periwinkle continues to emit sultrily from its speakers.


End file.
